A Stain On Their Souls
by Tristifico
Summary: Draco and Pansy are happily married after the war, and their life together is a pictureperfect one except for the one stain on their souls.


I wrote this because I was reading about Down's Syndrome and how they can lead to an increased chance in the baby having that particular syndrome if the parents are related by blood. Since all the pureblood families are related in some way, then wouldn't it be possible for one of their children to have this syndrome?

Please correct me if I've got any of these symptoms wrong. I don't really know that much about Down's Syndrome.

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**Spoiled Blood**

Draco Malfoy knew that something was wrong with his son when his son was two. He had come back from work early to see his young son moving across the large, grand hall, but his son did not walk steadily. Instead, he was _stumbling- _wait, not really, more like an awkward loping. And something else was wrong with the boy- maybe it was the too-wide eyes that were duller than other people, or the slightly lopsided mouth, or the blank expression on his face-

Yes, Draco's nagging suspicions were confirmed when he saw his son that fateful day. He summoned the nanny to him, and she took a look at her employer's narrowed eyes and furious red face before spilling. She told him everything- how his son still could not speak, rarely even a _Mama _or a _Papa_, how his son could not walk, still, and he seemed to be slower than the other children the nanny had brought up, and the simply _incessant_ drooling-

That day, several priceless crystal statues that the now-deceased Narcissa had adored were ruthlessly smashed against the wall, and a frightened nanny ran out from Malfoy Manor with her bag of belongings and some gold goblets in her large pockets.

Now alone in his huge study, for the house elves had all fled to some corner in the kitchen, Draco fumed, angry at himself, angry at his son, and angry that he had no one to throw a temper at. Malfoys were always perfect- they had the looks, and most of the time the brains, and now his son had some strange problem? He would never be able to enter the portrait gallery again- tens of generations of Malfoys would peer down their noses and glare at him, including his dead parents. How could he ever face them? But as he raged, he knew, somewhere in that still-rational part of his brain, that it was partly his own fault.

He was too busy with work, obsessed with his prospering company, and coming home earlier than nearly ten at night was a rare occurrence for him. He hadn't noticed his son much, for Draco left for work before his child woke up and came home long after the young toddler had fallen asleep. When they met on weekends, it was usually absent pats on the head from behind breakfast newspapers.

When Pansy Malfoy came back from one of her many social parties, Draco confronted her, but she vehemently denied knowing any of her son's defects. Draco naturally blamed her, of course. The Malfoy line was clean of any Mudblood taint for at least twenty-five generations, but the Parkinson line, while equally pure, had been known for breeding out abnormal people- wasn't her great-granduncle-twice-removed or something like that slightly insane? It was all her fault, he decided. Of course, Pansy lost her short temper at that, and started screaming and shrieking about what a horrible husband he was, how he never remembered her birthday or some such nonsense, how he always came back so late- was he having an affair with that well-endowed secretary of his?- and he was getting _fat_.

Though the couple sulked and ignored each other for the whole day, they had come to an unspoken decision. They were bringing their dearest son to St. Mungo's the next day. Magic, Money and Malfoy- these were the three things that could solve every problem. Or so they believed.

When the too thin, too pale and too gaunt Mediwizard entered his office, a thick file clutched in one hand and a pitying expression on his face, they knew that something was very, very wrong.

The Mediwizard sat down heavily behind his desk, put on his thick glasses tiredly, and sighed. "I'm so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, I know that-"

"Sorry about what?" Draco snapped, impatient for the doctor to end his charade. "Get to the bloody point. _What is wrong with our son_?" The last sentence was ended with a punch to the table, and the doctor hurriedly sat up. Somehow, he seemed much more awake, and smiled up at the irate couple in a greasy, oily manner.

"Yes,yes, Mr. Malfoy-" a hiss from Pansy stopped him momentarily, "and Mrs. Malfoy, of course. As I was saying, your son has a rare disorder that will affect him for life. It is mainly caused due to inbreeding and the maternal age of the woman. Muggles call this Down's Syndrome, and it only affects their mental and physical capabilities-"

"Only? _Only?_" Pansy screeched, and even Draco had to suppress a wince. "What else can this horrible thing do? Affect his magical ability too?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. He will most probably not be able to perform magic, and the Ministry of Magic forbids it too- see Law 97, Clause 2a, Point III, about Wizards Afflicted With Disabilities." The obsequious doctor said, and lowered his bald head regretfully.

"But is there a cure, then?" aked Pansy, suddenly tearful, taking out a lacy handkerchief, and Draco could see large tears forming in her eyes already. Before the doctor answered, though, he had already known the answer.

"No, there is no cure, but there are other alternative therapies-"

"Useless quack!"

The doctor was cut short as Draco Malfoy, with that last comment, dragged his wife out of the room. The thing that most purebloods placed as first importance was magic. It didn't matter if you were disabled, or ugly, or even a halfblood _and _ugly like the now also dead Lord Voldemort- as long as you were magically powerful, and knew how to make people submit to your magic, you could get your way in this world.

They went to one Mediwizard, and the next, and the third, and then even resorted to going to America, where they had heard of a supposedly "miracle" Mediwizard, but all of them said it was incurable, and they even had to deal with some quacks. One even told them, reluctantly, that cases like these were "rare due to certain circumstances", and the two of them knew just what he meant. The pureblood families would rather kill their children than tarnish the family image.

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A month after the last doctor shook his head, Draco made his final decision. 

Two months later, on a fateful night, a trembling hand gently poured a clear potion into a mug of hot milk. The potion sank quietly to the bottom of the mug, and another hand stirred the mixture gently with a silver spoon.

The day after, the Malfoys buried their only son in the family crypt. There was only a small burial service, "to respect the family's wish for privacy", attended only by their closest friends and relatives. The story was spread that the poor boy had died of some incurable disease, and no one, even if they suspected otherwise, dared to question that story.

They avoided the crypt as much as possible, because everytime they looked at it, they would remember the stain on their souls.

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Review please! 


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